


as for all assumptions made

by ethia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, PWP, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 08:29:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ethia/pseuds/ethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The door opens and the fact of not Mrs. Hudson barely registers before he grabs you by the lapels of your jacket and pulls you into the hallway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	as for all assumptions made

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle XII. Second person POV, unashamed porn. Prompt used is _jealousy_.
> 
> Title taken from _The Rain_ by the Swell Season.

The door opens and the fact of _not Mrs. Hudson_ barely registers before he grabs you by the lapels of your jacket and pulls you into the hallway.

“In,” he says, voice low and tight, his eyes on his hands instead of your face, and you're surprised by how much that stings. _Still_ not looking at you, just like hours before at the murder scene when his focus had shifted away from you so completely that to him, you seemed to not exist at all.

“What--,” you say, stumbling after him, your breath being knocked out of you as he pushes your back against the wall. Pain blooms in your shoulder blades, sharper on the left, but it fades quickly until all you feel is his arm pressed against your chest, right over the thick staccato stutter of your heart. You'd forgotten the strength of him, hidden in his lanky frame, and it's a mistake you won't repeat.

“Sherlock,” you whisper, your voice cracking on his name. His head is bowed, mussed dark curls hiding his face from you, his gaze lost somewhere in the small sliver of space between your bodies. You watch his shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep breath; the tight coil of his fist against your shoulder unfurls and you feel the heat of his open palm starting to seep through the fabric of your clothes.

You push against him then, and he pushes right back, keeping you pinned with ease. It's then that he raises his eyes to yours, dark in the murky light of the hallway. The intensity of his gaze comes as a shock; there's a wildness about it that makes your heart leap in your chest. His lips quirk; a lightning quick smile with a dark edge to it that makes your belly tighten with a sharp spike of desire.

“Please,” you whisper, his presence making you burn with a need so acute you barely remember how to breathe.

“Quiet,” he orders, a roughness in his voice that belies the whisper-gentle touch of his fingers as they brush the inside of your thigh. You let out a stuttering breath, trying to press closer to him, groaning when he doesn't let you.

“Don't. Move.”

You feel yourself grow hard as he moves his thumb in maddeningly slow circles on your leg, not even skin on skin and oh so very light.

“Please,” you groan, “please, Sherlock, I--”

“Quiet, I said,” he hisses, his breath hot against your cheek. His fingers still against your leg, hovering just out of reach. You suck in a breath and still yourself, fighting not to strain into his touch.

“There,” he murmurs, low and dark, making you shudder as his thumb resumes its gentle teasing. He leans closer, lips grazing the shell of your ear--

A soft thudding sound – a door being closed, Mrs. Hudson on the move – distracts him from you. He cocks his head to listen, giving you a good view of his long, slender neck, pale skin gleaming in what little light filters in from the outside. You shiver, thoughts of your mouth on his skin, his pulse drumming wildly under your lips making your groin tighten painfully, making you gasp with need.

His head swivels back around, lips parting as his dark eyes ponder you, cataloging your every reaction to him. A shift of stance brings him closer to you; the slightest of twists to the hand that's hidden between your bodies, moving it just so and his knuckles brush against your cock, feather-light, up and down and up again, until you have to bite your lip to keep yourself from making a sound. Breathing, now, that's a different matter; something that even he can't make you control any better than you do, ragged little huffs of air that do nothing to calm you down.

“Shh,” he makes, drawing your eyes to that beautiful mouth of his. Full lips, begging to be kissed, licked, pulled gently between your teeth until he--

– jumps away from you, one of those lightning quick movements of his, a gulf of distance opening up between you.  
“No,” you gasp, your pulse thick and hard in your throat. You must have moved, must have followed that overwhelming instinct to lean in and kiss him. “I'm--”

He gives a sharp jerk of his head and you fall silent, watching him on the other side of the hallway, hands buried deep in his pockets, dark eyes huge in his barely lit face.

“Upstairs,” he says, low and soft and very unmistakably an order.

You push yourself away from the wall, your pulse rolling in thick waves through your cock. One step and another, up and away from him, aware all the time of his eyes on you, following your every move. You can tell the exact moment he starts to come up after you, keeping his distance, matching your speed.

Late afternoon light greets you at the top of the stairs, basking his flat in a warm golden glow. You take a few steps inside, slowing yourself so that he can catch up.

“Stop,” he says, just as you've reached the middle of the room. “Turn.”

You do as he says, taking a steadying breath before you face him.

He's a splendid sight, leaning in the doorway in his dark suit, the top buttons of his burgundy shirt undone, revealing the hollow at the base of his throat. You swallow audibly, eyes fixed on his chest.

“Your jacket,” he says, very softly, almost making you miss the words, “take it off.”

You follow suit immediately, letting it drop to the ground behind you. His eyes follow the movement, then snap back up to your face.

“Shirt next. Slowly.”

Again you do as he says, fumbling with the small buttons until finally they've all slipped free.

“And the rest, in whatever order pleases you.” His voice catches on 'pleases', a small little whimpery sound that almost makes you buck your hips in response.

It's not long before you stand naked under the full intensity of his scrutiny, a warm flush spreading in your cheeks as he takes his time looking at you. Eyes lingering on the fullness of your cock, tip of his tongue coming out to moisten his lips and you can't hold back the moan that escapes from somewhere deep within your chest. Your thoughts are racing now, tumbling wildly, ideas of what he wants, of what he will make you do letting you clench your fists at your sides. You watch his eyes slide up your chest to your mouth, lingering there, and maybe that's what he has in mind, you on your knees in front of him, the heat of your mouth around him and--

“Turn,” he says, his voice having slipped into a deeper register than you've ever heard from him before.

You face away from him, presenting your back, your ass, muscles quivering as you fight to control yourself, to school yourself into the stillness he has ordered.

“To the chair,” he murmurs, still in the doorway. “Put your hands on the backrest.”

Pictures begin to fill your mind as you walk the few steps, flashes of yourself being bent over that ugly chair, being filled and moved by him, and your hands tremble as you put them on the faded fabric.

A sharp rasp of breath escapes you as you stand waiting, ears straining for any sounds. There's a long moment of silence, nothing but the sound of your own, ragged breathing; then you can hear him start to move around behind you, going this way and that, like he has all the time in the world. You ponder risking a quick peek over your shoulder, but his command keeps you pinned into place, right where you know he wants you.

You hear him get closer at last, more and more of his presence creeping into your awareness. The sound of his steps, his not so measured breathing, the rustle of his clothes. The spicy scent of his aftershave, sparking memories all of its own. The heat of his body as he finally steps up behind you, not quite close enough to bring him into contact with you.

You strain your ears for even the smallest sound from him – a rustle of fabric, a hitching of his breath, the unmistakable slide of skin on skin. Time slows to a crawl, unmeasurable by the desperate hammering in your chest. Too fast, too hard, and he's taking his sweet time, not touching, not being close, not--

“Shh,” he croons, his breath washing warmly over the nape of your neck, and you become aware of your own, low moaning. His hands come up to your sides in the lightest of touches. The tenderness of his caress takes your breath away, makes you close your eyes and lean into his touch. Slickwarm fingers slide over your skin, away from your sides and to your back, increasing their pressure and pushing at the tightness of your muscles.

“Oh,” you moan, and he lets you, his strong hands working the tension from your back. He lingers on the fading bruise on your left shoulder, a reminder of a fall you took almost two weeks ago while giving chase.

“Please,” you gasp,” please.”

“Don't talk now,” he murmurs back, but there's no sharpness to his words. You roll yourself back into his touch, hungry for more, for his hands to slide around you, to your chest and lower still, long fingers curling around your cock straining against your belly. You grunt at the thought, hips bucking in a futile attempt to find some friction.

His reaction is instantaneous; he slides his arms around your chest, pulling you back against him, skin to heated skin. The slickness of the oil he spread on your back makes you slide against him, back to chest and you gasp at the sudden contact. The gasp turns into a long drawn-out groan when you realize he's still fully clothed, has merely unbuttoned his shirt to allow for some skin contact. It's a distracting thought, but not as much as the feel of his slicked-up cock sliding against the skin of your ass, making both of you gasp.

“Don't move,” he whispers harshly into your ear, but it's _him_ who's moving, tiny little rolling motions of his hips, rubbing his cock against your skin. You make an incoherent sound in response, fingers digging hard into the rough cloth of the chair. He keeps you pinned to him with one arm, the other sliding lower, oilslick fingers trailing a path down your chest, over the soft skin of your belly, finally closing around the firmness of your cock, giving it one firm pull from base to tip. Before you have time to do more than moan your assent, his hand has already slipped away again, across your hip and around to your ass.

You almost lose your voice when he slips those long, clever fingers into you, opening you up to him. You let yourself slide back against him, rolling your own hips now, letting him reach as deep as he can. He fastens his mouth on that spot on your left shoulder blade, kissing and licking at first, sucking hard when your movements grow more frantic. You almost lose it there and then when you realize that he's marking you, that he's branding himself on your skin with mouth and lips and teeth and tongue.

“Now,” you whimper, your voice so rough and breathless, so filled with need that you barely recognize it as your own. “Now, please, Sherlock, oh--”

“Yes,” he whispers, his mouth hot against your ear, “now.”

He takes his time filling you, sheathing himself slowly, teeth nipping at your earlobe while he does, sharp little flashes of pain that go straight to your cock. His fingers, now free again, come around to take you in a tight grip, finally providing the friction you've been seeking so desperately. You thrust your hips sharply, once, twice, before his arm around your chest stills you against him.

“Don't move, don't,” he says sharply, pulling you against him even more tightly. You don't think you can, you honestly don't, but you find yourself nodding your head, no longer trusting your voice. He starts to move then, deep, measured thrusts in time with those strong fingers wrapped around you, adding that little twist at the end of each stroke that he found out drive you half-mad with need.

You give yourself over to him fully, falling into his motions, following the pattern he sets up for you. All the while he holds you close with one hand splayed over your chest, your heart drumming wildly under his palm. It's too much for you to last long; you're completely wrapped up in him, fitted against him so tightly that you can feel his pulse racing against your skin. Tension mounts hot and hard in your belly, coiling tighter with each minute roll of his hips, snapping in a thunderous crash when he puts his mouth behind your ear, placing open-mouthed kisses on the soft skin there.

You become dimly aware of Sherlock sliding his arms under yours to help you stay upright, sharp bursts of pleasure still spiking through your body. There's nothing measured about the way he's moving now, frantic motions of his hips driving him deep into you. His chest is slick with sweat and oil, slip-sliding against your back with each powerful snap of his hips. His lips graze the shell of your ear as he moves; he's whispering something, shells of words you just can't make out over the thundering in your ears.

You feel the moment of his pleasure sharply, the way he tightens himself about you, the long, low moan that you alone will ever hear. He doesn't slide out immediately, content to rest his weight against your back, catching his breath.

“Sherlock,” you murmur, when you trust your voice again, and he gives a sigh against your back, fingers flexing under yours. He slips out of you, letting you turn before he crushes himself against you, almost making both of you stumble over the back of the chair. He brings his hands up to your face, thumbs feather-light on your cheeks as he kisses you with a hunger that echoes his earlier passion. He whimpers into your mouth, pulling back a little so he can press slower, softer kisses to your lips.

“What--”

He brings his mouth to your ear, speaking with an angry passion in his voice.

“That pathologist friend of yours--”

“Daniel?”

You push at his chest to make him step back, wanting to see his face, sensing that something important is just unfolding between him and you. You recognize the stubborn set to his jaw, but you're new to the softness shimmering in his eyes.

“He _wants_ you. Looks at you like he could _fuck_ you--” He breaks off in mid-sentence, huffing out a breath, eyes burning now.

It all slides into place then; the way he would totally disregard your existence, to the point of not even answering your questions. How he would focus on your friend instead, bluntly taking apart whatever contribution he tried to make to the case. You feel something in your chest unfurling, feel yourself open up to this utterly frustrating, charmingly arrogant boy in front of you, who's just made himself yours, whether he'll ever admit to it or not.

“He's a friend, Sherlock, I've known him for years, and we _never_ \--”

“He _wants_ you,” Sherlock repeats, all stubborn determination and really, you've had enough of this and so you move in to sear a kiss onto his mouth, fingers threading through his curls to hold him to you until you're both out of breath.

“He won't have me,” you whisper against his lips, your thumb drawing soothing circles at the base of his skull. You feel him gradually relax under your hands, his body settling against yours.

“ _I_ will,” Sherlock murmurs back, drawing back far enough for you to see his eyes, see the earnestness shining in them. Your chest tightens painfully, feeling too small suddenly to hold the emotion welling up in you.

“Yes, you will.”

And you let him kiss you again in the warm afternoon light, smiling into his mouth until he believes you're his alone.


End file.
